“Perhaps I might be allowed to explain my point of view, which is also, as I mentioned, the Sentinel’s point of view. It is this. That the police are a public service and answerable to the public—”
“Not correct, surely. The police are responsible to the Home Secretary who is, in turn, answerable to Parliament.”
“That may be the constitutional position, but since Parliament is often busy with other important affairs, it has to be left to the Press to act as the watchdog of the public. To bring to its notice, by barking, any cases in which the police exceed or misuse their powers—”
“You mean, I think, cases in which it is alleged that they have done so.”
There was nothing offensive about what Petrella was saying. But it was unexpected. His experiences as an investigative journalist had often taken Poston-Pirrie into difficult, sometimes even dangerous, situations. He was by no means lacking in courage. He was well prepared for police officers who gave him a cold brush-off and the occasional lion who could be provoked into roaring. What was unusual was to encounter someone who was prepared to tackle him in his own dialectic.
Before he could climb back onto his high horse, Petrella said, “Wasn’t it you who was responsible for the disgrace – and, incidentally, the death, of Superintendent Hood?”
A month after his dismissal he had been found in his exhaust-filled garage. The coroner had accepted the rather unlikely theory of an accident.
“I brought certain facts to the attention of the authorities, yes.”
“Such as?”
“Such as that he was in close and friendly contact with some of the known heads of the pornographic trade.”
“Did it occur to you that it might have been his duty to keep in touch with them? Policemen often have to go into dubious company if they are to obtain the conviction of villains.”
“Ingenious,” said Poston-Pirrie with a kindly smile. “Very ingenious. But if there had been the slightest suggestion that he was setting a trap for them, surely there would have been some mention of this in the report of the investigating officers from MS 15?”
If he had not been off balance he would not have said this and he realised his mistake as soon as he had spoken.
“You saw this report, then?” said Petrella.
“Certainly not.”
“Then how do you know what was, and wasn’t, in it?”
“I didn’t need to see any report. Both the police and the public had long made their minds up about Hood. To start with, he was a known homosexual.”
Petrella said nothing. He was watching his visitor’s face.
“No longer always an offence, I agree. But highly undesirable in the case of a senior police officer, laying him open to every sort of blackmail and bribery.”
He had compressed his lips into a prim line of distaste. Yet it was not entirely distaste. There was something else. Hardly definite enough to be classed as gloating, but a suggestion of enjoyment; enjoyment of the power which such knowledge would have given him.
When Petrella still said nothing, he seemed to realise that he had been drawn some way out of his planned path. He said, “However, I did not come here to discuss Superintendent Hood. The complaints that I have had are from coloured people.”
“West Indians?”
“Many of them.”
“And the complaints?”
“They are, in short, that the police, in their dealings with them, have shown themselves both prejudiced and brutal. That they are liable to be arrested on suspicion when no grounds for suspicion exist. That in this area a point has been reached where they scarcely dare to walk abroad at night. And if they are driving a car this is automatically regarded as evidence that they have either committed, or are about to commit, a criminal offence of some sort.”
“I see,” said Petrella. “Might we, for a moment, abandon the general and come down to the particular?”
“The particular?”
“Particular instances of prejudice and brutality.”
“One of the men I was speaking to specifically told me that he had been struck, without provocation, by Sergeant Stark.”
“Without provocation?”
“So he said.”
“And he complained.”
“In this instance, apparently not.”
“Why not?”
“I imagine that he was afraid to do so.”
“Tell me, Mr Pirrie, have you ever been struck by a police officer?”
“Certainly not.”
“But you have been in places where these West Indians live. You have walked the streets at night and no doubt driven the car which I observe parked outside. How is it that you have totally escaped the attention of the police?”
“I imagine that my white skin has protected me.”
“Possibly. But you see what a difficult position it puts me in. The complaints you are making are second-hand. They are things which have happened to other people, not to you. I can only take action on a complaint when it is made by the person who has suffered.”
“Red tape.”
“Oh, certainly. But I have no objection to red tape as such. It serves a useful purpose by keeping a bundle of documents in some sort of order. There is a well-tried procedure for complaints. If made to me, I should forward it on—er—the appropriate form, to District and through them to Scotland Yard.”
“I will see if I can oblige you.”
Petrella stood up. Accepting the hint, Poston-Pirrie rose also. He was aware that he had not achieved his main objectives, which were to provoke Petrella to indiscretion and to acquire material for the article which the Sentinel was expecting.
When he had left, Petrella turned to his slightly diminished in-tray and started to read a report on drug-related offences and juvenile delinquency.
Two shadows slipped along among the other shadows in Packstone Passage and disappeared through a hole in the ground.
Arnold, who had been that way before, negotiated the grid at the bottom of the air tunnel without difficulty. Winston, the West Indian boy who was with him, needed help, but squeezed through at last after removing his jacket and pullover.
Both boys were excited. Winston was frightened, too. He asked questions in a hoarse whisper.
“What’s this room?” Is it the place? Is this where it happened? The men won’t come back, will they?”
“Of course they won’t,” said Arnold. He qualified this comforting assurance by adding, “Not unless they’ve got someone else they want to do.”
Winston was beginning to wish he hadn’t come.
The door which led from the spacious lobby into the even more spacious central room was unlocked. A full moon was playing among the clouds, throwing alternate washes of light and shadow through the dust-caked windows.
“I can’t see nothing,” said Winston, who had gone down on his knees.
“What are you looking for? You won’t see any blood. Like I told you, they were careful about that.”
“Where were you, then?”
“Up there.” Arnold pointed to the gallery looming above them. As he did so they heard the noise. Difficult to say what it was or where it came from. The boys froze. After a long minute Arnold said, “It’s all right. It’s rats. They’re in the wall. Hundreds of them.”
“I don’t like it,” said Winston. “Let’s get out.”
Arnold agreed. He was not feeling all that happy himself.
When they were outside Winston felt braver again. He said, “That was great. I mean, seeing it like that I could believe just what you said happened.”
“Remember. You’re not to tell anyone.”
“I’ve promised, haven’t I?”
As Winston said this he made one mental reservation. He would tell his greatest friend, Delroy. No one else.
Chapter Four
“If you want my opinion,” said Commander Morrissey, “I think Lampier’s behaved like a berk. A snot-nosed berk.”
Morrissey had
headed the Metropolitan Serious Crimes Squad for four years and was now in charge of the squads nationally. While promotion made some policemen pompous, it seemed only to have made Morrissey more foul-mouthed.
“If we’d taken the trouble to look into his background, we might have guessed that he’d go off the rails. Did you know that his old man was a cat burglar?”
“Yes,” said Petrella. “I knew that.”
“And had taught his son some of his tricks?”
“He certainly had,” said Petrella. He remembered watching Lampier go up a drainpipe as though it was a ladder.
“And that two of his uncles and his older brother all had form?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“Shouldn’t you have found out?”
Before Petrella could answer this unanswerable question he added, “I suppose you’re going to say it’s easy to be wise after the event.”
“No. It hadn’t occurred to me to say that.”
“Then let me tell you this. It’s never easy to be wise. Before or during or after the event. But it is possible to be careful.”
“Yes, I ought to have looked into his background more closely. Could you tell me, what did he actually do?”
“What he did was to get in with those turds who call themselves the Farm Boys.” Morrissey was silent for a moment, while his jaw moved as though he had swallowed the Farm Boys and was about to spit them out. “It’s not as if Gwilliam hadn’t warned him more than once to leave them alone. They’re filth. And in case you’ve got ideas of going after them yourself, I warn you: you won’t find it easy to pin anything onto them. Because they’re crafty. They operate through stringers. Half a dozen minor villains, who do the dirty work. They’re well paid and if they make themselves too conspicuous, they’re laid off and another lot are recruited.”
“And Lampier had joined the string?”
“It seems he did one or two minor jobs for them: driver, or lookout man, something of that sort. His first real scam was a lorry snatch, organised by Dog Henty. He’d told Lampier it was a doddle. Because the driver was an old army pal of Henty’s. He’d agreed to stop at this cafe in Chingford—”
“What was in the lorry?”
“Whisky.”
“And just the one driver?”
“Yerrs. But the lorry had a hidden switch. Controlled all the electrics. So when the driver got out for a char and wad with his old army mucker, he naturally switched it off.”
“And Lampier, who’d been told about it, switched it on again and drove away.”
“That’s just what he did,” said Morrissey with a savage grin. “But what he didn’t know was that the lorry ran on a system of a main petrol tank and a reserve one. Just a couple of gallons to take him to the nearest pump if the driver miscalculated. He’d been told about the electric switch, but he hadn’t been told about the spare tank. Or that the main tank was almost empty. After he’d driven the lorry a few hundred yards it began to die on him. He just managed to turn it into a quiet side-street, where it rolled to a halt.”
“Awkward,” said Petrella.
“He was up shit creek without a paddle, the stupid little sod. All he could do was abandon the lorry and make off. Unfortunately for him, a postman saw him getting out of the lorry. And a shopkeeper had seen him getting in. Both unshakeable witnesses. He had to be charged.”
“And was convicted.”
“After a fight. Counsel tried to make out that Lampier was really on our side. Acting as a stooge. The question he couldn’t answer was, if that was so, why hadn’t he told us where the lorry was? Actually, it stood where he’d left it for two days, with five thousand pounds’ worth of booze in the back, asking to be looted. And then it was only reported because it was blocking someone’s front gate. The jury didn’t like that. In the end they said ‘Not guilty’ to theft, but ‘Guilty’ to attempted theft, which meant a piddling little sentence of six months. Four months with full remission.”
“And discharge from the police.”
“Of course. Ignominious discharge. I insisted on that.”
There was something behind this that Petrella did not understand. There was a hidden anger in Morrissey. A personal anger, which was odd in a man who rarely allowed his feelings to colour his professional outlook.
To probe a little further, Petrella said, “You told me just now that it wouldn’t be easy to pin these people. Then the only possible line would be to infiltrate them. To get someone right among them. He’d have to be prepared to stand up in court and give evidence—”
“We’re not daft,” said Morrissey. “Naturally we’d thought of that. Even if Lampier had been prepared to play ball with us, after what had happened, we didn’t need him. We’d got just the man for the job. A minor character, called Flower. Ernie Flower. He’d been involved in one or two of the capers the boys set up and was beginning to get cold feet. He saw that if anything did go wrong, he and his friends would get the stick, while the Farm Boys were sitting pretty. He saw it was time to get out and make a bit for himself on the side. There are two big bank rewards still not collected. I didn’t underrate the opposition. Their intelligence system is remarkably good. So, when Flower approached us, I took every precaution I could think of. A four-man committee here handled it all. The Deputy Commissioner and Watterson – you remember him at Q—?”
Petrella nodded. He certainly remembered Watterson.
“He’s Lovell’s number two now. And tipped to take his job when he goes up. The others were me and my number two, Charlie Kay. I grabbed him when the Porn Squad was disbanded. After the Robin Hood episode—”
“Yes, I know about Hood.”
“I told Flower that any reports he made should come from a different call box – a different one each time – to a direct line in my office which would be manned from seven to ten every evening. My daughter, who was working at Central, took on that job. She shared it with me.”
“Sounds watertight.”
“It sounds that way, but somehow or other the finger started to point at Flower. Nothing definite. But he began to get nervous. He’d got news of a smash and grab on a Securicor van the boys were setting up. He said, if he gave us the full details, could that be the signal for out? I took that call myself. No exaggeration, I could hear his teeth chattering. I said, OK, we’ll collect you from your pad late tomorrow night. We’ll set it up as a normal arrest.”
Morrissey stopped. He was making an effort to restrain the anger that was boiling inside him. He said, “Perhaps you can guess the rest. No sign of Flower in his one room bed-sit. No papers, either. Someone had been through the drawers and cupboards, not forgetting the pockets of his best suit hanging behind the door. Careful, you see.”
“And Flower?”
“Gone. I suppose he may turn up. In whole or in part. But I doubt it.”
“Well, thank you for bringing me up to date,” said Petrella. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. There was one other thing.” He laid the half-sheet of photographs on the table. Morrissey examined it in silence. Then he said, “Paedo-porn. It’s the latest disease. I’m told that a lot of this stuff is shot in Holland. Sometimes we catch it on the way in. It’s worrying the DC. Anything you can do, he’ll certainly support. If you want an expert view on this, have a word with Charlie—”
Petrella found Superintendent Kay in his office across the passage. In appearance, he reminded him of photographs he had seen of First World War infantry officers; the stubbly moustache, the weather-reddened face, the look of someone who had been through a lot and was glad to have come out on the far side. He said, “Wotcher, Patrick. Back from a lovely hike on the Mediterranean beaches.”
“That’s right,” said Petrella. “Back on the job, bursting with enthusiasm and full of questions.”
“I was afraid of it.”
“First, could you find out for me what magazine this unpleasant exhibit came from. There’s what might be a printer’s mark on the back.”
“Very helpful. If it’s registered.” Kay took the page, looked at it briefly, folded it up and put it into an envelope. He said, “It was a diet of stuff like that that made me glad to leave the Porn Squad. What’s next on the menu?”
“I was talking to Morrissey about Lampier. I wondered if you had any ideas about it.”
“When I first heard the story, I just thought, one more lump of shit down the hole. When I thought about it a bit more, there was one thing that did strike me as odd. Look – you’re driving a lorry with one of these main tank-spare tank arrangements. Right? Do you let the main tank run down to the last perishing drop of gas before you switch on the spare?”
“Certainly not. It would probably cause an air lock.”
“Then why in this case?”
“You think the main tank may have been drained on purpose?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“But why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But you can see the result of doing it. Suppose the boys weren’t quite sure about Lampier. Suppose he wasn’t even quite sure himself. Fixing it this way would force him to make his mind up, wouldn’t it? If he’s really doing the job as a decoy for the police, he reports it. Job done. End of story. If he isn’t, he lies low and hopes he hadn’t been spotted.”
“You mean it was an experiment?”
“Something like that.”
“Rather a dangerous one for the boys.”
“Why? They’d got nothing to lose, except a lorry full of booze. That was poetry. Did you notice?”
“Yes,” said Petrella patiently. “I noticed. But didn’t it mean that if Lampier was a police spy he could put Dog Henty on the spot?”
“How? He hadn’t done anything wrong. Just arranged to meet a pal – they really had been in the army together – and chat about old times over a cup of char. Whilst they’re doing it someone comes along and nicks the lorry. No one more surprised than them.”
Petrella thought about it. He could see the logic in it. It could have been fixed that way. It didn’t make Lampier much better; or, for that matter, much worse. He said, “What I did find odd was the way the old man had taken it. I’ve never known him like that before. You’d have thought that Lampier had done him a personal injury.”
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